


Corsets and Con Games (Devil in a Blue Dress Mix)

by Isis



Category: Gentleman Bastard Sequence - Scott Lynch
Genre: Crossdressing, Crossdressing for Crime, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Remix, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 05:56:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15835131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: “Am I not the Thorn of Camorr?  Am I not a master of disguise?”“Master, yes,” said Jean.  “Not a mistress.”





	Corsets and Con Games (Devil in a Blue Dress Mix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prinzenhasserin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Corsets and other Paraphernalia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13044618) by [Prinzenhasserin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/pseuds/Prinzenhasserin). 



> This remix is totally faithful to the plot of the original, as long as you consider the plot to be _Jean is distracted by Locke in a dress_. :-)
> 
> Thanks to Farevenetc. for beta!

“A book,” said Jean. He tipped back his mug of ale and took a large swallow of the foamy liquid, feeling it fizz down the back of his throat. It was decent stuff, higher quality than the piss served by their usual haunts, which meant he was right to be suspicious that Locke had brought him to this particular inn. “Not gems, not piles of gold. A book.”

“A diary,” Locke corrected him. “Accounts of research into the soul by the Bondsmage Pel Acanthus.”

Jean shuddered. “I’d have thought you’d had enough of Bondsmagi. I certainly have.”

“I’ve had enough of being led around like a blind man, grasping at things just out of reach while being hit over the head by something I can’t see. If I’m to survive – if _we’re_ to survive – I have to know more about my past.”

“So you’re taking me down with you,” said Jean, but there was no heat or accusation in his words. There was really no question that they’d be together to the end, whether it was years down the line or just around the corner, and he knew that Locke knew it, too. He drank some more ale.

Locke smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. “I’m doing what I can to ensure that we beat those assholes at their own game.”

“Well, I’m with you.” He drained his mug. It really was quite good ale. He wondered if they could afford a second round. “But you knew that already.”

“Excellent. So, here’s the thing. The house has been abandoned. Between the Black Whisper and the wards, nobody’s gone near the place in years.”

“So why don’t we just go in and get the diary without all this rigmarole?”

“I live for rigmarole,” said Locke. “And did you miss the part where I mentioned wards? Wards set by a Bondsmage?” 

“Did you miss the part where I said that I have had enough of Bondsmagi?”

Locke continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “The wards are keyed to the legal owner, and the legal owner, according to the papers filed in the Hall of Records, is Pel Acanthus’ daughter Charla.”

“Who doesn’t exist.”

“Who doesn’t exist,” agreed Locke. “Yet.”

Jean shook his head. “I take it you’ve got a candidate. I’ll tell you right now, I’m not happy about bringing someone else into this scheme. If we had a woman with us we could trust – if Sabetha….”

He couldn’t finish that sentence. It hung between them like some insidious alchemical cloud, sweet-smelling yet toxic. _Sabetha. Trust._ What had he even been thinking? He lifted his mug almost to his lips before he remembered it was empty, and put it back on the table.

“Well,” said Locke – and it was only because Jean knew him so well that he heard the slight sharpness in his voice – “we don’t have Sabetha.”

“Whoever you’ve found to do this, she’s not going to be Pel Acanthus’ daughter. If the wards work on blood, it doesn’t matter if you’ve found the best actress in Camorr.”

“The wards are tied to legal ownership. We simply need our Charla to file her claim and receive the deed.” He smiled. “And naturally I found the best actress in Camorr.”

“All right,” said Jean. “Who is she?”

Locke shrugged. “Me, of course.”

It was a good thing Jean had finished his ale, he thought, because if he’d had a mouthful, he’d surely have lost it, sputtering across the table. “You can’t be serious.”

“Am I not the Thorn of Camorr? Am I not a master of disguise?”

“ _Master_ , yes,” said Jean. “Not a mistress.”

“It’s only a role.” Abruptly Locke shifted his posture, his face, his whole manner; and when he spoke again, he was Lucas Fehrwight, his Emberlain origin in every pore of his skin, every syllable of his words. “Do you imagine it is harder to be a woman of Karthain than a man of Emberlain?”

“It’s probably easier when one is a woman to begin with,” said Jean dryly.

“But that’s just it, Jean.” The transformation reversed, and in an instant he was Locke again. “As you pointed out, we don’t _have_ a woman to begin with. Not one we trust, at any rate, and this particular job is something that I’d rather keep close to my chest.”

Jean observed the chest in question. It was rather lacking in the breast department for the task Locke intended, though he supposed that a bit of padding would do the trick for the casual onlooker. Certainly Locke was more suited to the task than he was, considering his bulk. But still. “I won’t dispute that you’re a master of disguise. But are you good enough to fool a Bondsmage?”

“Ah. Fortunately, I don’t have to fool a Bondsmage. I only have to fool the clerks at the Hall of Records.” His grin was chilling. “Much lower stakes.”

“To be sure,” said Jean. “But I’d better oversee your preparation, just in case.”

* * *

“I appreciate your assistance in this difficult time,” said Charla Acanthus. Her eyes were wide, her smile soft and pleasant, and the muted golds and pale blue of her gown set off her light skin and dark red hair. The Karthain accent made her sound charmingly exotic. “I confess I hardly knew my dear Papa –“

“Overdone,” said Jean. He drummed his fingers on the table they had set up in Locke’s rooms to stand in for the clerk’s desk. “A little less woeful orphan, if you will.”

“I’m afraid Mother and I lost track of Father when he came to Camorr,” she continued smoothly. 

“Better.”

“But I understand he’s left some property here?”

“It’s rather fallen into disrepair,” said Jean. “What do you intend with it?”

“I shall hire workmen to make it habitable. I should like to spend some time in Camorr – what a fascinating city you have here.”

“Well, a bit of Karthain coin will certainly be welcome. Blah blah, here’s your paper, miss. No, stop, you’re walking all wrong.”

Locke – for as soon as he started walking toward the door, it was most definitely Locke in a dress and wig, not Charla at all – turned and made a face, and dropped both the Karthain accent and the register of his voice. “I’m walking as well as I can in these ridiculous heels.” He lifted the edge of his gown to fully reveal his boots. They weren’t particularly high-heeled – no higher than those worn by the men of the nobility, who liked to exaggerate their heights – but the heels tapered sharply so that the surface contacting the ground was only the size of Jean’s thumbnail. 

“That’s just the point. Women _don’t_ walk as well as they can in heels. They mince about and let their hips sway and – trust me, Locke, I’ve watched a _lot_ of women.”

Locke nodded. “You’re right.” He put on Charla’s persona like a cloak. “One moment, please.” It was Charla’s voice again.

Jean watched as Charla made her way back across the room. There was still a hint of Locke, he thought; or maybe it was that he knew it was Locke. “Again.”

Charla sashayed and minced and stepped lively, as though she were trying on different pairs of feet. Finally Jean leaned back with satisfaction. “That one was good.”

“Finally,” said Locke – it was Locke again – and he pulled off his wig and dropped it to the table. “I think I can do this.” He crossed to the door with Charla’s gait, paused with his fingers on the handle, then turned and came back. Sitting on the edge of the table, he unlaced his boots one at a time and pulled them off. “Got it. Which means I can get out of these torture devices. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“It’s nothing,” Jean muttered. Except it wasn’t nothing. Without the wig and the soft expression, it was Locke wearing a dress, walking across his room with a flair that showed off the hips and breasts that Jean knew were just cotton padding. It wasn’t as though Jean hadn’t occasionally noted Locke’s lean, lithe body in his ordinary clothes. But this was _Locke wearing a dress_ , and somehow Jean’s casual appreciation for Charla’s feminine form had transformed, as she had transformed into Locke. It had become a burning need to see Locke _not_ wearing a dress. 

To see Locke not wearing _anything_. 

“It’s not like you to be concerned,” said Locke. “It’ll be a quick, easy job.” 

Jean sighed. “It’s never a quick, easy job.”

Locke’s fingers went to the gown’s clasps and began to undo them, and Jean found his gaze irresistibly drawn to the skin on Locke’s neck and shoulders as they were gradually exposed. “I concede that the actual job will probably involve a lot of pain and suffering. But it will be _my_ pain and suffering, so you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

The pale blue and gold fabric dropped to the floor, and Locke was no longer wearing a dress. Instead he was clad only in a diaphanous white shift, and – Jean gulped – a _corset_. “Now, be a good co-conspirator and help me get this thing off.”

“Believe me,” Jean said, as he reached for the laces on Locke’s corset, “there’s going to be some pain and suffering on my end, too.”

* * *

Of course it turned out not to be a quick, easy job. There were multiple visits to the Hall of Records and multiple arguments with the clerks there; there were multiple visits to the wreckage of Pel Acanthus’ house, which seemed both eerily preserved and completely desolate. There were bribes to pay. There was a fight with the Ninepins toughs, who had apparently been hired by the Bondsmagi – or perhaps by a single Bondsmage – which impressed on Locke and Jean the necessity of getting this thing done before word got back to their masters in Karthain. When Locke finally got from the large waiting room into an actual office with an actual clerk, the clerk, citing an obscure regulation, refused to work with Charla Acanthus until she’d hired a local representative with knowledge of Camorr law; fortunately Jean had a room already rented and an identity already in place, legacy of a con the Gentleman Bastards had run years before.

Unfortunately, this meant that Jean – or rather, Sefano Ricci, accredited foreigners’ representative on Camorr legal affairs – had to accompany Charla to the Hall of Records. Not that he hadn’t been shadowing Locke for safety’s sake, of course, which had turned out to be entirely justified due to the affair with the Ninepins. But since that day of practice in Locke’s rooms, Jean couldn’t get _Locke wearing a dress_ out of his mind. Which was the sort of thing that might compromise believability, and that, Chains had impressed on them early on, was a serious mistake. 

He had to look at Charla and see Charla, not Locke wearing a dress. He had to be thinking about how to help this young woman from Karthain reclaim her rightful inheritance, not about how amazing Locke had looked in a shift and a corset, and how much he really wanted to push Locke up against the wall and strip all that silly women’s clothing off his slender body, and...well, it wasn’t a profitable train of thought. Not to mention that it was easier to hide his feelings from Locke while he was at a surreptitious distance.

In the clerk’s cubicle they endured a short question-and-answer session, during which it became clear that the requirement for a foreigners’ representative was more intended to spread coin around the Camorr legal establishment than to protect foreigners from being rooked. The clerk nodded at Sefano Ricci, took the inflated fee, and handed them a thick sheaf of papers for their signatures.

Locke signed each document in a smooth, careful hand, then Jean signed his false name with a flourish beneath. By the time they finished the pile of paperwork, he felt as though he’d forgotten his own name under an avalanche of _Sefano Ricci_ s. 

The clerk leafed through the documents, noting the signatures and nodded his head. “Looks like it’s all in order. I’ll just get the key, then.”

Jean and Locke exchanged a pleased glance after the clerk had left his office by the back door, which presumably connected to the warren of other cubicles and offices and storage rooms in the Hall of Records. _The key._ The end product of all this scheming and fighting and...and _costuming_. Locke had mentioned that he supposed it would have some sort of Bondsmage magic to it, and would unlock the wards as well as the house. Worth all this trouble. Even worth standing next to the sweetly-smiling Charla, knowing it was Locke in a dress. In a _corset_. 

Minutes passed. Five minutes, ten, twenty minutes. They exchanged another glance, one that was not nearly so triumphal.

“It seems we have been waiting a considerable time,” said Locke to the air. “Master Ricci, do you think there might be some problem?”

“Perhaps the key has been filed away and is taking some time to find,” said Jean dubiously. “The Hall of Records has a rather capacious basement.”

“Perhaps the clerk became distracted by another task,” said Locke. Charla’s voice sounded earnest, but Jean could read the message in Locke’s eyes: _Perhaps the clerk is sending word to the Bondsmagi._ In which case they were fucked.

“Well, my dear,” said Jean, “I’m afraid I really ought to return to my office – no, no, I wouldn’t think of leaving you here on your own. We can come back this afternoon, if you like.”

Locke nodded. “That might be for the best.” 

Jean pushed aside the door that led from the clerk’s small office back into the large waiting room, and immediately froze. It was empty. It shouldn’t have been empty; when they had come in, only a half-hour before, it had been filled with people waiting their turns to see a clerk, waiting for business credentials, or marriage permits, or whatever else they needed from the great machinery of the Duke’s government. 

But now, it was empty. And that could only mean one thing.

He hoped Locke could run in those heels.

* * *

Of course they started by walking sedately, as befitted the personas they were currently inhabiting, but when they heard a voice – not that of the clerk they’d been dealing with – calling out behind them, “Stop right there!” they both began to run. 

It turned out that Locke _could_ run in those heels, but he couldn’t run very _fast_ , and they hadn’t gone very far before three toughs in the colors of the Ninepins were on them. Jean swiveled around and pulled the Wicked Sisters from where they were concealed under his cloak; Locke pulled a knife from somewhere in his skirts and turned viciously on the man assaulting him, getting in two good jabs before the man even realized that the person in a dress wasn’t actually female. 

It was over quickly. Jean dispatched the man closest to him and turned to the others, who exchanged nervous glances and ran back into the Hall of Records. Evidently they hadn’t recognized Jean from their previous encounter, and they hadn’t expected a woman and a legal representative to be capable of fighting back.

“We’d better disappear before they get reinforcements,” Locke said. He was already walking, as fast as he could in his heeled boots. He wasn’t bothering to swivel his hips this time. His wig sat slightly askew despite the pins holding it in place, and the front of his gown was torn open, exposing a handsbreadth of the corset underneath.

Jean quickly caught up with him as Locke dodged around a corner, almost tripping over the prone body of a man who was either dead drunk, or just dead. “I just hope they don’t have a Bondsmage with them.”

“They don’t. If they did,” Locke said grimly, “we’d already be dead.” He dodged around another corner into an alley which ended at a short wall. “Boost me over. Can’t climb in these damned boots.”

Jean did, then scrambled up behind him and dropped down on the other side. “Where are we going?”

“The Wild Pear’s probably being watched,” said Locke. That was the inn at which “Charla Acanthus” had taken rooms. 

“But we don’t want to lead them to our actual rooms.”

“Right. So –” Locke took a sharp left, went through an archway and down a flight of stairs, then pulled a key from a pocket and opened the door at the bottom. “Bolthole time.”

The door led to a narrow stone corridor lit only by tiny holes cut very high on one wall. Jean knew that Locke, who had very good reasons for his paranoia, had a number of hideouts all over Camorr, though he’d never been in this particular one. The stone walls and high, small windows made it feel uncomfortably like a dungeon. But he’d put up with a dungeon if it meant safety. 

Another flight of stairs brought them back up to street level; the room on the other side was small but seemed spacious compared to the stone corridor, with large windows covered in sheer curtains. There was a bed, a chest, and an armoire, and a low table with a basin and ewer. The door on the far side of the room was barred. 

“That doesn’t go anywhere,” said Locke, seeing Jean eyeing the barred door. “Just a dummy. The real door’s through the armoire.” He sat down heavily on the bed and began to unlace his boots. “I think I twisted my fucking ankle.”

Jean watched as Locke’s fingers worked, and suddenly the sharp awareness of _Locke wearing a dress_ that had been pushed to the back of his mind by imminent peril flooded back into the forefront of his consciousness. He took a step back. “I’ll just –”

“You’ll just help me get this off. My foot’s all swollen. Fuck, this is going to hurt.”

Jean sighed and moved toward the bed again, off his cloak and knelt in front of Locke, bending his head as he reached for the boot. Hopefully the blood he felt rushing to his cheeks wasn’t as obvious as it felt to him. The small pained noises Locke made as Jean gently pried the loosened leather away from his foot were almost erotic; the gasp of relief as the boot finally came away in Jean’s hand definitely was.

“Not too bad.” Jean eyed Locke’s ankle clinically. It was indeed swollen, and already beginning to bruise yellow and purple near his heel, but there wasn’t any bone sticking out, at least. 

“It’s not _your_ ankle,” said Locke. “But it’s definitely preferable to having Bondsmagi get hold of me. Now the other one.”

“As a young boy, I always dreamed of being a lady’s maid,” he grumbled, but he reached for Locke’s other foot and unlaced the boot. 

“Why, Master Tannen!” It was said in Charla’s breathy voice, and Jean laughed as he pulled the boot off. 

“I admit I was thinking of removing different items of clothing, though.”

“Well, you’ve got your chance now.” 

Jean sat back on his haunches and looked up at Locke. While Jean had been taking off the boots, he’d unpinned the wig, which now sat on the bed beside him, looking like a small russet-colored animal. Despite the traces of feminine paint still on his face, he looked like Locke. 

Locke wearing a dress. That he’d just invited Jean to take off.

“I admit that I was thinking of what might happen _after_ removing those items of clothing.” It came out hoarser than he’d intended. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. _Well, it’s not the first time you’ve made a fool of yourself_ , _Tannen_. He opened his eyes again. “Forget I said anything.”

“You’ve got your chance now,” said Locke again, and this time his voice was harsh and urgent.

Jean’s eyes flicked to Locke’s face. He looked serious. Not that that meant anything. He sighed. “Don’t play games with me, Locke.” He rose from the floor. Locke leaned forward and grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him, hard.

“Wait,” said Jean. His brain seemed to have been left behind on the floor, or maybe it was still back in the Hall of Records. “What?”

“Are you going to take my dress off, or not?”

Well, _that_ was a stupid question.

* * *

“So what do we do now?” asked Jean. 

“We sit tight for a while, I think,” said Locke. He’d risen from the bed and was washing the last traces of Charla’s makeup from his face in the basin. Jean admired the view. They weren’t Charla’s luscious hips – those had been a trick of padding under the gown – but Locke’s tight, firm buttocks were nothing to sneeze at. “I’ve got various outfits in the chest – nothing that will fit you, but at least I can put something on that isn’t a dress. We can slip out this evening and get some food at the market, and find an urchin we can pay to keep an eye on things for us.”

“The Hall of Records, and the Ninepins?”

Locke nodded. “And Pel Acanthus’ house. We should be able to lay low here until things blow over.” He finished splashing his face, and turned around. The view was equally as fine.

“That could be days,” said Jean. 

Locke smiled. “I can think of ways to pass the time.”


End file.
